


Lysif's Tear

by Aqua_Scales



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, BAMF John, BAMF Mary, Gen, Mild Blood, Minor Violence, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Quests, Wizard Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-24 23:13:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14964045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aqua_Scales/pseuds/Aqua_Scales
Summary: For years John has lived a quiet life at the Queen's Card tavern in the Imperial city of Old Anisport. Until one day mysterious mage named Sherlock shows up offering him a place in his band of adventurers.They are on a quest to find a fabled artifact that has the power to bend realities and they aren't the only ones. The fate of kingdoms hang in the balance! Will our heroes be able to reach their goals before their enemies?(Rated M, because I'm not sure how graphic its going to get.)





	1. The Queen's Card

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there friends!  
> This is my first post on this site.  
> I just got really stuck on the idea fantasy Sherlock AU.  
> Has it been done before? Yes.  
> Am I doing it anyway? Also yes.  
> I'm still sorta figuring out the lore. Honestly this was based on a dream I have remembered and I'll be the first to admit I don't know where this train is heading.  
> If you see any typos, let me know in the comments.

**Chapter 1**

“I’m not paying for it, Lin. I didn’t order it,” John said gesturing at the three extra barrels of ale that Lin, the local brewery’s delivery person, had placed in front of the bar.

“Well, that’s not what the ledger says,” Lin said pointing to the slip of paper she held in her hand.

“Well, the ledger’s wrong,” John huffed. “I can’t pay for this. I don’t even think I have room for it. It’s twice my usual order.”

“This is my last run,” she whined, stuffing the paper into her back pocket. “I can’t take it back. The brewery’s closed by now.”

“Lin, you can’t be serious!”

The young woman looked nervously at the front door as she ran gloved hand through her short brown hair. The sun was already setting, casting rays of orange light through the bar’s rectangular windows.

“Shit I gotta go, John,” she said sharply as she started towards the door, workman’s dolly in tow.

“Figgs’ll have my head if I’m late returning the carriage again.”

“Lin!” John shouted as he stood stock still in disbelief.

“I know. I’m sorry,” she said looking back from the door frame. “Just…I don’t know. Sell what you can and I’ll swing by for the rest as soon as I can next week.”

“Next week!”

“Yeah first thing I promise!” she shouted, already out the door.

“Damn it,” John said mostly to himself.

What was he going to do with this? He’d only been in charge of the Queen’s Card Tavern for a little over a year but the job hadn’t stopped throwing obstacles at him.

“It Brinda’s fault you know,” came a woman’s voice just to John’s left.

He turned to see Gemma the barmaid, smiling at him as she carried out a tray of freshly washed glasses from the kitchen. Her honey-colored curls were tied into a loose bun at the top of her head and she wore a neat practical brown dress with a stained white apron tied at the waist.

“She’s a sweet girl,” Gemma continued setting the tray down on the freshly wiped bar top, “and anyone with eyes can see why Winstel hired her, but she’s a bit of a ditz.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining last week when she was making eyes at you,” John said dryly. Gemma smiled brightly at that, all straight white teeth and dimples.

“Jealous?” she asked.

He huffed, shook his head and then with a smile said, “Maybe.”

“Don’t be. She was unbearably boring and besides,” she said leaning over to kiss John on the cheek, “you know I prefer blondes.”

John let out a soft chuckle as she winked at him and they both got to work drying glasses.

“What about, Doris?” he asked as they got into a rhythm of drying and shelving glasses. “Gods!” she groaned, “She could come through this door with hair the color of spinach and she could still have me in an instant.”

“That good, huh?”

“Indescribable. I haven’t heard from her in days, though,” she added the last bit with the slightest of frowns. “Just my luck really, I find a perfect girl and she flies right out of my life. What about you?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” he said trying and failing to not look disappointedly at the stairs that lead to the rooms upstairs.

“Ah, it didn’t work out with Sarah, then,” Gemma guessed.

“I’d really rather not talk about it,” he said and let the conversation die as they finished setting up for the night.

Several hours later the Queen’s Card was in the middle of the evening’s first rush. Its tables and stools filled with workers from the surrounding docks and warehouses. It looked much like it had when John had landed there three years prior.

He’d come into town with nothing more than the clothes on his back and a handful of personal belongs. He must have looked particularly desperate because when he had gone to ask the owner for work she hardly questioned him before setting him to work in the kitchens; sweeping up and washing dishes. It had been only the fourth place he’d asked but without a working permit none of the warehouses in the area would even consider hiring him.

Mrs. Hudson had shown John more kindness than he had seen in years and he repaid her with loyalty and hard work. She had owned the Queen’s Card for over a decade, inheriting both the tavern and the building it was in from her husband after he’d died.

The top two floors had several rooms that Mrs. Hudson rented out either for guests who needed a place to stay or to local prostitutes who needed a place to ply their trade.

In the years John had worked there Mrs. Hudson, who had no children of her own, had treated him like the son she’d always wanted but had never had. So when she expressed the desire to retire, John made her an offer: she could stay on as owner of the property but he would take over the Queen’s Card.

The place had become like a home to him and the thought of someone else taking it had felt blasphemous. Despite being officially retired, Mrs. Hudson never really stopped working there. She still practically ran the kitchen and did laundry for guests for a fee. Tonight, like every night before, she sat in her corner booth, chatting with regulars and sipping her small glass of brandy.

John, so lost in thoughts of the past, didn’t realize that Gemma was practically flailing to get his attention. He gave her a questioning look, rather than shouting over the noise of the crowd. Gemma nimbly traversed the crowd to reach John to whisper in his ear.

“Don’t be obvious,” she said, “but if you look behind you, second from the corner table there’s a man who’s been staring at you since he sat down.”

John instantly felt his face flush at the thought of not noticing someone looking at him. Doing what Gemma suggested he turned his head only slightly and tried to look out of the corner of his eye. There was a lot of movement in the busy tavern so it took him a few seconds to focus his vision on the man but once he did a slight shiver ran down his spine.

The man was _gorgeous_. He had dark hair that was pulled into a short ponytail at the base of his skull. Even from where he was standing John could tell that it was curly. His face, while almost too long, held sharp clear features that no one could deny; high cheekbones, a sharp straight nose and full lips. Even sitting down John could tell the man was taller than most. However what was more noticeable than any of that were his eyes, which were strikingly light, sea colored blue-green and stared direct into his own.

The mystery man was looking right at him with a focus John had never experienced before, it was a little alarming. It was of no use denying that he had noticed, John turned bodily towards the man. As he did the mystery man broke eye contact, leaned over to speak to another man sitting opposite him that John had failed to notice. The other man rose from where he was sitting with his back turned to John and came towards the bar, apparently at the mystery man’s behest. The other man stopped in front of John and let out an annoyed sigh before rolling his eyes and announcing, “My traveling companion requests your company, sir.”

The man gave John an apologetic look that suggested he was equal parts embarrassed and annoyed at being forced into the task of bothering him. The man had short cropped gray hair and wore leather traveling pants with a simple linen shirt and a dark blue cape over one shoulder. John noted the worn handle of a short sword peeking from behind the cape. It wasn’t uncommon for folk to be armed in a city as large and crime ridden as Old Anaisport but John decided to be on guard regardless.

John gave the man a sympathetic smirk before asking, “Is this a business matter?”

“Of a sort,” the man replied. “My companion will explain, if you’ll join us.” With that the man turned to head back to his place at the table, apparently expecting John to follow.

Gemma, who had been slyly pretending not to listen went up to John and asked, “What was that all about?”

“No idea,” John said. “But I’m about to find out. Keep an eye on the bar, will you?”

Not waiting for a reply John slipped from behind the bar and walked towards the two men. As he approached the table, John’s curiosity turned to apprehension.

The mystery man was a _mage_.

John mentally kicked himself, he should have notice earlier: the look of bored arrogance as he had someone else call John over, not something a common man might do. However it was the telltale belt leaden with pouches (no doubt full of magical reagents), John could now see, that truly gave it away. The man also had a small satchel which John was certain held other magical tools.

John hated mages. Mages were always, without question, trouble.

Old Anaisport was about a day’s travel on horseback from Median, home of the largest magical academy in the country. In truth Old Anaisport owed much of its wealth to the trade with Median, as mages were always in need of supplies for their craft. Likewise, it made Old Anaisport a drop point for less than legal magical items as well. More importantly though, was that by decree of the Emperor alcohol was forbidden within the walls of Median.

Thousands of mages with unstable magic plus inebriation had led to immeasurable city damage in the past. As the nearest city, Old Anaisport was the go to place for a drink. So it stood to reason that an acolyte looking for break from his studies would end up here. John wouldn't mind it, after all coin is coin but mages had a way of starting trouble. If they weren’t starting fights with the locals, they were blowing things up and it was always left to John to foot the bill for the damages.

Armed with this knowledge John stopped just in front of the table, placing his hands on the back of an unused chair. He used his position to glare down (more or less) at the tall mage. The mage looked back at John, undaunted.

“Please have a seat,” said the man with short grey hair gesturing at the chair John was leaning on. He seemed to sense the tension and was trying to diffuse it. It didn’t work.

“I’m fine, thanks,” John said with a falsely cheerful smile. “So your friend here says you’ve business with me.”

The man spoke, his voice a smooth bass rumble. “The Battle of Helm Girim. The Massacre of the Caplin Raiders. The Seven Day Siege Dinhill Fortress. These are just a few of the battles ended, some would say single-handed, by the renowned Captain Watson of Flynt Mier’s mercenary band.” John felt his stomach drop as a cold sweat beaded across his forehead. He stared at the mage, his mouth dry as a thousand questions and fears ran though his head in an instant. Quickly he looked around the room, searching for anyone who might be there to kill him or worse throw him in irons.

“Relax, if I wanted you arrested you would be,” the mage said.

“Who the hell are you?” John hissed his head snapping back to look at the mage.

“So you are him,” the mage said with a self-satisfied smile.

“I never said…”

“Don’t waste time denying it.”

This was not happening. John was not going to let it happen, not after everything he’d done to get there. No one was going to invade his home, especially not some pompous mage.

“Get out,” John said through clenched teeth.

“But you haven’t even heard my offer,” the mage said unfazed.

“I don’t care,” John said looming over the mage, “I don’t know who you think I am but you’d better get the fuck out of my establishment or I’ll throw you out myself.”

“Sherlock, let’s just go,” said the grey haired man who started to stand.

“Lysif’s Tear,” the mage, Sherlock, said point of fact. The two words brought John’s angry train of thought to a screeching halt.

A simple confused, “What?” was all John could muster.

“You heard me perfectly well or was I wrong to assume that you weren’t deaf. Lysif’s Tear, a magical artifact so powerful it’s said to be able to warp the very fabric of reality. Historians believed that there were only ever two in existence, both destroyed.”

“Why are you telling me this?” John asked, his brain finally kicking back into gear.

“Because they were wrong,” Sherlock stated.

“I don’t understand,” John said his apprehension now dwarfed by curiosity.

“Don’t be dull, John. Your reputation precedes you; an unparalleled tracker, bowman and assassin with an unusual hobby. You spent years searching for clues to a treasure most people think is a myth. You paid good money for that information too, from what I’ve gathered. You’re probably the only man alive who knows as much about this subject as me.”

“How do you know this?” John asked.

“Why’d you stop looking?” Sherlock asked, ignoring John’s question. John was now fairly certain the man was not here to turn him into the city guard. Now that he (probably) wasn’t in immediate danger he took a moment to think.

“Because there was nothing to find and I lost more than money looking,” John replied gripping the back of the chair a little harder.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Watson,” the mage said. “There  _is_ something to find and I want your help to find it.”


	2. The Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock offers a quest and John freaks out about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this instead of doing my job that pays me money. lmao   
> Let me know if you find any mistakes.

**Chapter 2**

John jolted to attention at Sherlock’s claim. The mage’s eyes were practically glowing with excitement.

“In my research I found a map, hidden under several layers of spells and written in the Old Tongue besides,” Sherlock continued gaining speed with every word. “The translation alone took me nearly two weeks and then there was the matter of…”

“You’re a warlock?!” John nearly shouted, interrupting Sherlock’s speech.

Sherlock made a face like he’d just been forced to suck on a lemon.

“Hmmm. I hadn’t pegged you for a… _moralist_ ,” he said as though the word meant something far worse.

“I’m not a moralist,” John huffed.

“Then I don’t see why it’s a problem.”

“Demons kill people,” John said matter of fact.

“Demons kill idiots,” Sherlock corrected with a roll of his eyes.

“It’s forbidden!” John whispered sharply at the clearly insane mage.

“So is working under an assumed name and shooting people full of arrows but that hasn’t stopped you before, _Mr. Hamish,_ ” Sherlock countered.

John winced at that. John Hamish was the name he’d decided to go by once he arrived in Old Aniasport. It was his maternal grandfather’s name, so he hadn’t felt wrong claiming it as his own. More importantly John was realizing that this mage could be a real problem for him in the future. He knew _far_ too much.

“Shall I continue?” asked Sherlock.

“I need to know something first,” John said. “Why are you so sure you need my help?”

“Generally speaking I’m a man of knowledge, not a man of action,” Sherlock said simply.

“I really doubt that,” John said. “You could hire anyone. Why come to me?”

Sherlock took a moment before speaking this time, looking down and clasping his hands in front of him, fingers interlaced.

“This journey will undoubtedly be dangerous,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “More so than the average sword for hire might be willing to risk. But I chose you in particular because you’re invested in this. You believe in it beyond the idea of a how much coin it will make you. You see, Mr. Watson, I need a man of your faith.”

“And what if I say ‘no’?” John challenged, “I have a life here. One where I don’t have to worry about where my next meal is coming from. One where I don’t have to worry about someone slitting my throat to steal my coin purse while I sleep.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Sherlock said, turning his head up sharply with an incredulous scowl. “You are just as likely to be murdered here as anywhere else.”

“That’s not the point,” John said a little exasperated himself.

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock asked tilting his head ever so slightly. “Are you really going to spend the last decades of your life tending bar?”

“Maybe. How would you know? I don’t even know you,”

“I know you,” Sherlock said smugly.

“Really?” John said, the word dripping with doubt.

 “You’re stunted here but you stay because you feel like it’s all you have,” Sherlock said, looking him squarely in the eyes and spoke the rest with clear certainty.

“You pretend to be clumsily and dull. Earlier tonight there were two men about to fight. You purposely tripped into one spilling his drink to redirect the attention and not only did you perfectly maneuver to avoid a blow, you got him out of the way of other patrons. To top it off you offered him a free drink to diffuse the tension. You don’t move like a simple barman and you don’t think like one either.

You have lots of acquaintances but no one truly close. You joke and smile but it never goes further than that.

You flirt with anyone who’ll allow it but you never stay longer than a few minutes. You’re afraid to let anyone too close. Which is why even when you _do_ desire closeness it never lasts long. Which would also explain why you keep looking forlorn at the woman three tables down. An ex-lover, you regret that it didn’t work but not enough to fix it because it was inevitable.”

John gawked. The man with gray hair groaned. Sherlock continued.

“It’s a waste,” Sherlock said vehemently. “You’re strong, you're agile, but more than that you’re clever. Clever enough to convince these people that you’re bumbling halfwit like the rest of them. Clever enough to have gone this long undetected.”

Sherlock lean in so close their noses nearly touched.

“Clever enough, even to help me find a treasure so valuable entire kingdoms have fallen in pursuit of it.”

He said it so quietly it was nearly intimate, and John felt a shiver run the length of his spine.

John didn’t dare move. He daren’t even breathe. They stayed like that for a long moment before the grey haired man cleared his throat, breaking the spell.

Sherlock flicked his eyes disdainfully at his companion for the interruption but backed away and began rising from his seat. He gathered up a long black coat from the back of his chair and quickly put it on. He gave the collar a quick flip before looking back at John.

He was already stunning to look at but to see him at his full height was a bit more intimidating. He was only a few inches taller than John but he practically loomed over him.

Sherlock crowded close as he said, “Take your time. Lestrade and I will be staying at the Speckled Mare Inn, I’m sure you can find us. We’ll be departing in three days, after we collect supplies. If you’ll be joining us and the look on your face says you will, meet us there just after sunrise.”

“Incredible,” John whispered, not taking his eyes off the mage. Sherlock simply smiled.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock barked, marching off toward the door not bothering to look back.

“Nice…uh. Nice meeting you,” the grey haired man, Lestrade, said before rushing off after the mage. “Sherlock wait up!”

“Who was that?” Gemma asked coming up behind him. “John? Are you alright?”

“Oh…uh. Yes. Yes I’m fine,” he replied realizing that he was staring, opened mouthed at the door. “Just a bit…”

“What did he ask you?” Gemma pressed.

“He was looking for someone,” John said, “but he had the wrong person.”

“Really? You talked for a while, looked more like an argument really,” she said concern plain on her face.

“Mages…,” John said giving her a reassuring smile, “They’re all mad.”

“True enough,” she said but it was clear she was still a bit concerned. “Anyway I wanted to let you know, we've got a bit of situation.”

“Situation?”

“Rhys and Vaughn," she said pointing to the two regulars.

John groaned and with that the night returned to near normalcy.

His mind kept wandering back to the mage though. A warlock, who spoke the Old Tongue, the forbidden language of those who resided Beyond the Gates; demons. But one who also claimed to hold the key to a treasure John had spent over a decade trying to find.

_It could be a trap,_ John thought.

But that didn’t make sense. It was almost ridiculous but John really believed that the man wouldn’t turn him in. He’d had plenty of opportunity for that if that’s what he had truly wanted. No, the offer was sincere, which to John was more terrifying than if it hadn’t been.

Early that morning, just before sunrise, after the last of the tavern’s patrons had left and they’d done the final sweep up John went into his small corner room on the second floor, just across from Mrs. Hudson’s.

He locked the door behind him. He took a moment to close his eyes and just listen. He heard the soft snores of the guests just below him. He could hear the creaking of the building’s old wooden frame. He could even hear, very faintly the western facing sea.

He was alone.

This was a thought that both comforted and terrified John for much of his adult life. Being alone meant he had no one to lose but it also meant that he had nowhere to belong either.

John walked over to his small bed and bent down to reach under it with both hands. He released several hidden clasps on the underside of the bed’s wooden frame.

With a click, a heavy wooden box detached from the frame. It weighed more than John had remembered and he nearly dropped it.

He quietly settled it to the floor before sliding it out in front of him.

It was a rectangular box made of richly lacquered wood that was nearly the same length as the bed. It had a small mother of pearl inlay in the shape of a soaring bird at its center. John opened it slowly, reverently.

Inside was an unstrung bow made of wood so dark it was very nearly black. The handle was wrapped in worn brown leather.

It had been a gift from his teacher. She had been harsh woman but practical. She had taught him how to survive in a country torn by war.

_What would she think of me now?_ John wondered as he ran his hand along the length of the bow.

The quest for the God’s Tear had been as much her quest as his own. She’d died for it. He’d nearly died for it too. He’d been so certain all of those years ago, giving it all up, starting over.

But now there was a map and a madman and a real chance! A chance to honor her sacrifice, a chance to make it all worth it. John’s heart raced a bit at the thought of it. If he found the Tear he could finally fix the mistakes of his past, he could finally go home.

_Home,_ he thought looked around his small room.

Sherlock had been right, mostly anyway. He hadn’t really allowed anyone to get too close here and not because he hadn’t wanted to. He couldn’t. The last time he had checked there had been a sizable bounty on his head. While he more or less trusted Mrs. Hudson, Gemma and a few others, it was too much of a risk.

The more people who knew his secrets the more likely they were to get out. His friends might keep his secret, true. However John knew enough about the people in this city to know that a good number of them would turn him over to the city guard in a heartbeat for that kind of money.  They would be the kind of people who wouldn’t hesitate to use his friends against him.

John imagined it. Men with swords breaking down the door, holding a sharpened blade to Gemma throat.

Blood. Fire… Death.

John seethed at the thought of it, his hand tightly gripping the hefty wooden bow. He’d already lost one home, he wasn’t about to lose another.

But did he have a choice? He’d already been found out and if one person could track him down that meant others could too. In that moment John decided what he would.

John believed Sherlock wouldn’t turn him in but he couldn’t stay here. He would wait the three days, maybe four, just long enough for Sherlock and his companion to leave, then he would leave right after.

His stomach soured at the thought of leaving. He’d worked as hard for this. John closed the lid of the wooden box and placed back under the bed.

He laid down in his small bed and began thinking of all of the things he needed to do to be ready to leave.

He drifted to fretful sleep just as the sun began to rise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deduction is hard. =p  
> Did I do okay?   
> Did you catch my tiny Borderlands easter egg?  
> Can you tell I'm a huge nerd? lol ;)


	3. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or where everything enviably goes to shit.  
> Or when ghosts from John's past shows up and property damage ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There some blood and violence in this chapter but I don't think it's that super intense but I'm adding tags to reflect that. Better safe than sorry.  
> I swear after this chapter we're changing locations. Enjoy! 
> 
> Comments and suggestions welcome!!!

Chapter 3

* * *

 

 

For next three days, John was on pins and needles. Ever since that mage, he had become cautious to the point of near paranoia. He was constantly checking locks and windows, or looking over his shoulder.

He’d nearly punched Garrett, one of the cooks for accidentally sneaking up on him. The rest of the staff seemed to notice too but everyone but Gemma seemed too afraid to mention it.

"You know, I don't think swearing at it is going to make it cooperate,” she said.

"Damn leg's broken,” John grumbled.

"I noticed," she said dryly. “I also noticed..."

"Shit!" he shouted as the leg of the chair he’d been trying to repair snapped off.

"I also noticed that you seem a little bit on edge,” she said leaning over the bar to examine the wreckage. There were tools and bits of wood scattered on one of the tables John had decided to work on.

"I'm fine,” he said glaring at the pieces of wood in his hand. If he’d had any magic, the thing might’ve caught on fire.

"No you're not,” she said sharply. “You haven't been since that mage showed up. What did he say to you?"

"I told you,” he said a little exasperated. “He didn’t say anything, really."

"Well _I_ don't believe you,” she said. “I'm your friend, John. You can talk to me."

Her voice was pleading; she was practically begging him for the trust. Something Gemma never did.

John cringed a little at that. He felt more than a bit scummy keeping this big of a secret from someone who trusted him so much.

She _was_ his friend, after all.

 

"He just reminded me of someone, that's all,” he said bashfully, after a long pause. “I usually don't get so sentimental about this kind of thing. I guess I'm not handling it well."

"You're handling it terribly,” she teased. “Look what you've done to that poor chair.”

John scowled and tossed the broken pieces onto the table before dusting his hands off on his pants.

"I'm only joking,” she said with a slight smile. “I know you never talk about you past much or anything but just know if you ever need someone to talk to I'm here, okay?"

"Okay,” he said before turning toward her, willing himself calm as he ran a hand through his hair.

"And please don't kill any more of the furniture,” she joked.

"Promise,” he said with a slight chuckle. He was being ridiculous. He’d already planned to leave. He should be trying to make the little time he had left happy.

That had settled it. He nodded to himself.

He was going to spend the rest of the day making it one of his best. He was going to get ridiculously drunk and he might even sing, something he rarely did outside of special occasions but Mrs. Hudson loved it.

 

He was mentally going through the list of things he needed to do to make this the greatest party The Queen’s Card had ever seen. So, it stood to reason that it was exactly then, when the other shoe dropped.

 

* * *

 

The tavern’s door behind them creaked open, which was odd for two reasons:

  1. They were closed, and
  2. That door was _locked_.



John’s hackles rose.

“Oh hello,” Gemma said sweetly, if a little confused.

“What a quaint little place,” came a woman's voice. “You always _did_ like that kind of thing, John.”

_That voice! It couldn’t be._

A stone of dread began to settle itself in John's stomach.

John felt it as the color drained from his face.

The seconds it took to turn felt like eons. As he did, a painfully familiar face came into view.

_It was **her**!_

Alarm bells went off inside his head. Every part of his mind that wasn’t reeling with confusion screamed at him to run.

In the doorway stood a woman of average height. She had blonde hair, lighter than his own, cut shorter than he had last seen it. She’d had the sides shaved, with the remainder smoothed back.

She wore the telltale red and black leathers of the band of mercenaries they had both belonged to, with a short jacket that stopped at her midriff and loose cotton shirt tucked into her pants.

“How…?” he asked as his eyes widened in shock.

“Now, _that_ , would be telling,” she said before she looked up at Gemma with bright green eyes and winked.

That is all the warning she gave before she attacked. John only had a split second to react.

“Gemma! Get down!” he shouted, then dashed forward, and grabbed the broken chair.

It was close. _Too close_ , he thinks but he gets it up in time.

The blade, wicked sharp and gleaming, sank hilt deep into the wood with a loud, _thwack!_

John realized, too late that this was a distraction.

The attacker rushed in close, slashed at an exposed side with a second blade.

John had just enough time to duck to the side, but he wasn’t quick enough.

He let out a hiss of pain as she sliced though his shirt, leaving a shallow cut.

Still gripping the chair, John swung down at the attacker but she’s already moving out of striking distance.

She landed a swift at his wrist. It’s hard enough to bruise, forcing John to release his makeshift weapon.

Before he had time to think, she swung another kick towards his face. On pure reflex he ducked back to avoid the blow. He over-balanced and stumbled back.

She was unrelenting, on him in an instant. She slashed wildly towards his face, closing the space between them.

John knew needed to get out of the defensive. He’d only been reacting to her moves. If he continued to let her push him, he’d be dead.

 _I’ll only have one shot at this,_ he thought.

He reached out, lightning-quick, and grabbed her wrist as the blade came toward him in a vicious arc. The blade stopped inches from his throat.

John squeezed hard enough to feel her joints pop in his grip.

“Drop it,” he said though clenched teeth.

“Or what,” she asked with slow, cool smile. “You’ll kill me?”

John faltered at that, a deep-seated guilt dampened his resolve.

She used this moment to knock him off balance and press in close. She leaned her full weight against him, forcing him back. His hip collided with the bar sending a sting of pain though his side. He let out a hiss of pain, but he didn’t let go.

He couldn’t.

John squeezed harder and the blade slipped from her fingers to the ground.

She let out a small gasp, never breaking eye contact. She was enjoying this despite the pain or more likely from what John knew of her, because of it.

Her expression was heated, pleasure and anticipation made plain. Her free hand glided along the front of him.

John shuddered with what he’d like to believe was more disgust than anything else. The woman’s smile widened.

John shoved her away. She stumbled back, gripping her injured wrist.

“I see some things never change,” she smiled up at him, her gaze wild and triumphant. She made no move to attack again.

“How are you here?” he growled.

“Does it really matter?” she asked.

 _Fine_ , he thought.

John scooped up the fallen knife. It seemed that they had reached the end of their fight but he’d rather be armed it he could help it, given his company.

“ _WHY_ are you here?” he prompted instead.

“You’re not happy to see me?” she said with a girlish pout.

John just gave her a hard look.

She scoffed and rolled her eyes as if to say, _you’re no fun._

“I’m on a job,” she said finally.

“You’re not here to kill me or you would’ve done it,” John reasoned.

“Not everything is about you, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m not actually here to kill anyone.”

“Could have fooled me!” Gemma shouted, inching up from behind the bar.

John had almost forgotten about her.

“Feisty! I like that,” the blonde woman said flirtatiously.

Gemma glared up at her. The effect of the glare was greatly reduced by the fact that she had only risen a few inches, still mostly obscured by the bar.

“Leave her out of this,” John said coldly, his had flexing around the hilt of the knife. Rather than acknowledge his clear threat, the woman pressed on.

“Do really think you were that hard to find? After you left, it only took me a year and a half to figure out where you ran off to and a few months more to find this place.”

“Congratulations,” he said flatly. “Get out.”

The blonde woman clicked her tongue at that but made no move to leave.

“John. What going on?” Gemma asked, fear in her voice.

“Leave,” John said to the woman, more firmly this time, as he took a step forward.

 “Make me,” she said taken her own step forward, violent tension weaving itself back into the air.

It is just then, for the second time that day that someone unexpected walked through the door.

There was the sound of the door creaking and heavy, slow-paced foot falls.

“There you are. Mary, my girl,” said the newcomer, his gravelly voice dripping with false pleasantness.

In the doorway, backlit by streams of yellow sunlight stood a man. Tall and whip thin, dressed in a similar fashion as Mary; practical black and red leathers, although where her jacket was short, his reached his knees.

He wore a matching feathered cap and had a jeweled eye patch covering his left eye. He was followed on either side by two other similarly adorned men.

“D’you really think you could go off on your own like that, and the boss wouldn't do nothin’?” the man continued.

Mary, her back still turned toward the door froze where she stood. Her eyes flashed, with what John guessed was genuine surprise. 

 _This couldn’t get any worst_ , he thought.

 

Just then, the man seemed to notice there were others in the room. His eyes flitted around the room. They briefly passed over Gemma’s hiding spot before they settled on John. There was a moment of confusion and then mutual recognition.

“My stars!” the man breathed, stepping further into the room eyes fixed on John. “Johnny?! Is that you?!”

John recognized the man. His name was Conner. The last time john had seem him he’d still had both eyes, but there was no mistake. What John remembered the most about the man, was that he was just as cruel as he was stupid, which was very.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Conner said incredulously.

John let out a humorless chuckle. “There seems to be a lot of that going around.”

_This was getting ridiculous._

“Wait until Flynt hears about this,” Conner said. From his expression, John could tell that the man had made quick calculus of the situation. John could practicality see the man counting out his reward money.

John had been (as far as he knew) the one of only people to get out and it had taken him faking his death to do it. Others had tried but Flynt had made them pay dearly for the attempt. His former leader would be more than pleased to get him back and death would be a mercy compared to what John would face if they caught him.

John focused on Mary, anger clouding his face.

_She had brought them here!_

Mary stared back. Frustration plain on her face for the briefest moment before shifting to annoyance and then resignation. She rolled her eyes and gave John the barest of nods before turning on her heel to face Conner.

“As if I’d let you take this away from me,” she said, voice raised loud enough for the whole room to here. “I found him first. If anyone gets him, it’s me.”

“That’s why you broke orders? Awful risky of you if you weren’t sure...”

“I had a reliable source. Besides, if it turned out I was right, the reward would’ve been greater than the risk,” she said with a shrug. 

“’s all well and good, but as you can see, I got a mission of my own: bring you in. Ol’ Johnny here is just bonus.” He licked his bottom lip as he said it. Like he could practically taste the coin he’d get for this.

“You put a hand on him and you’ll lose it,” she said, coolly.

“Now, now. There’s no reason we can’t work this out. Peaceful, like.” Conner raised his hands in a placating gesture, but as he said it, he took a step forward. The two men with him readied weapons as he did. The man to his right readied a bolt in a large, heavy crossbow, while the man to his left raised what could be described as a cudgel; a thick piece of wood inlayed with knots of iron.

John gripped the handle of knife he’d stolen a little tighter.

_This could go very poorly, VERY quickly._

John watched Mary as she looked at the men before her.

“Alright,” she said quietly. “Fine then, take him.”

As she said it she hunched down, shoulders sagging, her head bowed seemingly in defeat. It was something John had never seen her do. It didn’t make sense.

“Makin’ the right choice, you are, my girl,” Conner said, satisfied. “No reason for this to get messier than it needs to be.”

Conner turned to the man with the cudgel. “Bring me the little duck hiding behind the bar.”

Just then, just as unexpectedly as before, she flung a blade.

 

During the course of the conversation, Mary must have drawn the blade.

Unlike before however, this blade hit a much more fatal target, hitting the man with the cudgel neatly in the throat. The force of it caused him to stumble back as he grasped uselessly at the blade. Great gouts of blood spurted across the freshly cleaned floor.

“Move!” Mary shouted and just like that, the room exploded into action.

 

John who had previously been standing stock-still darted to one side, kicking over a table to hide behind as he did.

Just then, the man with a crossbow let loose. The bolt that had been aimed at John flew and sunk deep into the wood of the upturned table. For all of the distraction the man’s aim was true and the razor sharp tip of the arrow slashed open the top of John’s shoulder.

“Shit!” John hissed, clenching his teeth against the pain. He sank down, placing a firm hand over the wound.

It would take time for the man to ready another bolt. John needed to move before then. He cautiously peeked over the table and the lackey was indeed preparing another bolt and making quick work of it.

Mary was engaged in battle with Conner, who in the time it had taken John to get cover produced a rapier. The thin long blade flashed as Conner and Mary traded blows. Despite the lack of an eye, Conner was not just holding his own against Mary, but he seemed to be winning. He was using both his impressive height and the length of his blade to keep her at bay.

Not that Mary was doing poorly, by any means. She moved with the same savage grace she had used earlier, pushing in at every opening and darting away if he got too close.

It was beautiful.

 

But John needed to focus on the matter at hand. John knew he needed to take away the bowman’s advantage. The question was: how to do it without getting shot?

He was already injured, both of his wounds staining his tan shirt beyond repair.

John still held the borrowed knife, but it would be useless to him from this distance.

He needed to get close. Rising before his plan truly congealed, John faced the man with the crossbow. The man had already begun to aim when John made his move.

 

The plan was simple but risky.

John rushed him, throwing the knife as he did. While he was fairly out of practice, he was able to hit the crossbow, sending the shot wild.

John dodged the shot and kept coming.

He closed in quickly, wrestling away the cross bow, tossing it to one side before landing a swift hard jab to the man’s gut. The force of it sent a spike of pain though John's injured shoulder but the man folded over in pain.

The man, ever determined, lurched forward grasping blindly for John.

John dodged easily and as the man stumbled past, John took both of his hands into a giant fist and swung down at the man’s neck.

It was a stunning blow and the man fell face first to the floor.

 

Before he could get up, John is on him, he doesn't remember picking it back up but the knife is in his hand. He placed a knee firmly in the man's, grasped at thick brown hair, and pulled tightly, exposing the downed man's throat.

 

John placed the blade against the man's throat and held.

"You move a muscle and I'll slit your throat,” John said. Only now did he realize how absolutely _furious_ he was.

He was seething. The man froze.

 

John realized then that he no longer heard the sounds of swordplay. He looked up to see Mary in a position that mirrored his own. She stood, her own blade pressed against Conner’s neck, who was kneeling with his back to her. His cap had vanished and his blade lay five feet away.

 

“P-p-please, you don’t have to do this,” Conner begged.

"You and I both know that’s not true," she said and for the second time that day, she dealt a killing blow.

Conner let out a terrible gurgled cry as he fell to the floor. He grasped desperately at Mary, weakly catching the hem of her pants. She kicked him off easily, wiping blood and sweat from her face with the back of her hand.

She looked down at John, her posture languid as she used the end of her shirt to wipe the blood from her blade.

"What are you waiting for?” she asked matter of fact.

John tensed, shocked out of his revelry as she came over swaying with each step.

 “Do it.” she whispered gently. His hand flexed around the hilt. It would be so easy.

_He deserved it didn’t he?_

_He’d tried to kill him._

_They tried to hurt Gemma._

 

_He was NOT a nice man._

John felt her wrap around him from behind, the warmth of her against his back. A hand still wet with the blood of a dead man held his; a ready guide.

The man beneath him squirmed, drawing a thin line of blood.

It would be so easy.

 

“Stop!” came a cry from the doorway.  It was the mage, Sherlock, and his companion, Lestrade from before.

 It was as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown on him. John's stomach twisted with disgust at what he'd been about to do.

John pushed Mary off of him, not caring at all for her cry of protest. He tossed the knife.

 

Lestrade stopped short, taking in what must’ve been a horrific sight.

John practically ran to the other side of the room to be away from the man he'd nearly killed.

“We’re wasting time. The guard is already on their way,” Sherlock announced.

"We need to kill him. He'll talk otherwise,” Mary protested, pointing at the man who lay on the floor, prone.

"No!" John shouted.

“We don’t have time for this!” Sherlock growled. "Turn him over and hold him,” he said to Mary.

“Hey what the hell are you doing?!” John started forward.

“Do you want this man to live or not?” Sherlock said. The look he gave John could spoil milk and it was so unexpected John paused.

“I’ll take your silence as a yes,” Sherlock said as he turned his attention to the man on the floor.

Sherlock looked the man in the eyes. He whispered something in a language that John could not understand, but the power in them flowed through the room like an ethereal wind.

The mage’s pale eyes grew even more pale and seemed to glow with power.

The man stared back, captivated. The very next instant his eyes lost focus, and collapsed, unconscious.

"He'll have forgotten why he came here. He'll forget having seen anything of use,” Sherlock announced, dusting off his cloak. “We'll dump him by the pier. He'll be confused but otherwise harmless."

“Amazing,” John said. He had _never_ seem magic preformed with such ease.

Sherlock gave the barest smirk in response before turning to Mary.

“When I asked for your help, _this_ was not what I expected,” he said seriously.

“This isn’t my fault. I didn’t know I’d been followed," Mary whined

“Quite sloppy of you…” Sherlock said.

“Wait. You SENT her here!” John shouted.

“I ask for her help, yes, but I had no idea what her tactics would be,” Sherlock reasoned.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” John said, his voice faltering as he thought of everything that had happened.

 

The tavern was ruined. Tables and chairs, had be tossed or broken. There was blood everywhere, and two DEAD men besides.

What was worse was that his past had come back haunt him in a major way. He had hoped to spend the rest of his life without ever seeing Mary again.

“We don’t have time for this. Grab your things. Let’s go," Sherlock commanded.

“I’m not going anywhere with either of you!” John protested.

“So what? You’re going to stay here, explain to the guards why an elite band-of-killers were trying to kill a barkeep? And do you really think they’ll be the last?” 

Sherlock stated it with the tone of cold hard fact.

“I…” 

The man was right. Gods help him but John knew that he was. 

“They’ll be here in minutes. We’re heading out now. The ship leaves within the hour. You’ll do better on the run with a group than on your own.”

Sherlock stepped closer, nearly hovering over him. "You've already packed. You were planning on leaving anyway."

"What?” Gemma said. She had risen from behind the bar. She looked terrified and confused.

"Gemma, I..." John started, reaching out toward her. She took a step back, distrust plain on her face.

What a sight he must’ve been; bloodied and bruised, no longer the kind, gentle man she'd considered a friend.

"Oh for god sakes!” Sherlock shouted, out of patience. “The ship is called the ‘ _The Rosegold_ ’ we'll be leaving with or without you."

“I’m sorry,” John said to Gemma. The words stuck like ash in the back of his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out waaaaaaay longer than expected. Also I've never written action/fights before, which sounds dumb considering this is an action/adventure story. Lol.


End file.
